A Day in the Life
by Sleeves
Summary: Today was a good day. Tweek/Tweek, basically, with Craig/Tweek undertones. Tweek and Tweek Jr., if you will.


_A/N: _This has been done for a really long time, but I wasn't sure if I wanted to post it. It's a little weird.

**A Day in the Life**

—

I'm thinking about Craig. I think about Craig a lot. It's kind of unhealthy, but so is everything else I do.

I'm thinking about Craig right now because he's standing in front of me and I'm lying in a puddle of coffee and blood. It sounds worse than it actually is. I just slipped on a patch of ice and I think I broke my nose, but it could be worse. An ice shard could have gotten in my eye or something.

I always walk to school. Craig can drive, Clyde and Token can drive, Cartman and those guys can drive. Everyone can drive except for me. Even if my doctor said I _was _allowed to, I would never get behind the wheel of a car. So I walk to school, I leave myself susceptible to ice-related accidents, and today my nose is broken because of it.

"The hell happened to you?"

"I slipped," I mutter into the ice. I can feel my spilled coffee seeping into the fabric of my shirt. It's warm, and it kind of burns, but it's a relief against the cold ice.

"Well?"

"Ergh! Well what?" I squeak back, a little screechier than usual.

"Well, do you want some help?" he continues, drawling, bored.

I raise my eyes to him. He's holding out a hand, looking thoroughly bored with the situation. I wonder why he stopped to help me at all. My face stings with cold and my stomach burns with coffee. I do want some help. I'm twitching like heck, but I can't move.

He heaves an irritated sigh at my hesitation, grabbing me by my arms and pulling me to my feet. I sway dizzily, feeling warm blood trickle down my face.

"You look like shit."

"Thanks," I say faintly.

He sweeps his hat off, placing it in my shaking hands.

"Wipe your face," he says, snatching away my backpack, scooping my thermos off the ground, and starting to walk away. "I'll walk you home."

I stare petrified at the hat for a moment. Craig doesn't slow down or turn around to see if I'm following him. Does he even know where my house is? Sure, I hang out with him sometimes (rarely), but he's never been to my house. Nobody's been to my house since elementary school.

"CRAIG!" I shriek, finding my legs and scrambling after him, almost slipping on the ice again.

Craig glances sideways at me as I catch up to him. "Wipe your face," he says again.

"But your hat—"

He cuts me off by grabbing my wrist and directing it up, shoving the hat in my face. I let out a muffled squeak into the fabric, afraid to bleed into it too much.

"C-Craig, I can't go home. I have to go to—erh—school, and so do you," I mumble, trying not to feel too guilty as the blue fabric becomes stained with blood from my broken nose. I wish it would stop bleeding. If I ruined Craig's favorite hat, I don't know what I'd do.

"No, I'm suspended," Craig says, "and you have a broken face. You're going home."

He sounds so forceful. The commanding tone in his voice makes my face heat up, and I'm suddenly thankful for his hat pressed to my face. We walk in silence. I continue to bleed into Craig's hat.

"This is my street," I mumble as we reach a snow-capped street sign. I notice my voice sounds kind of funny because of the condition my nose is in. Kind of nasally. I twitch my nose and wince.

"All right," Craig says, and he keeps walking with me down the street. When we reach my house, my hands shake as I fish the key out of my pocket. It takes three tries to get it in the lock.

Craig steps inside after me, and I don't know what to do, so I just keep standing there beside him in the doorframe. He seems completely at home though, and he drops my bag on the floor, saunters into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee and pull an ice pack out of the freezer, and then heads into the bathroom. When he returns, he's holding a bottle of painkillers.

"Take two of these with your coffee, then go rest and ice your nose," he says, zipping up his coat and opening the door. "And don't trip on anything else."

I stare dumbly at the bottle of painkillers, still holding Craig's hat to my face with my other hand.

"Craig, your hat—"

"Keep it," he says, not turning around as he steps outside.

I stare down at the hat in my hands, not really sure what to say. "Thanks."

He half-turns and looks back at me. "See ya, Tweek."

He takes his first step out the door, and I stop him again.

"Craig!"

God, I'm annoying. He turns around, regarding me with patient, bored eyes. He's a saint.

"Yes?"

"I'm—s-sorry for bleeding on it. Your hat, I mean."

Craig rolls his eyes. "Tweek, it's fine. Go take your painkillers and drink your coffee. If you start dying from blood loss, just give me a call."

"If I WHAT?" I screech, and the door closes in my face. I swear to god I hear Craig laugh on the other side, but I could just be hearing things.

Feeling numb, I shuffle into the kitchen, removing Craig's hat from my nose for the first time since he gave it to me. There's a mug of hot coffee sitting on the counter, and I snatch it up, taking a long sip. It burns my throat a little, but I'm too busy thinking to notice. I hope he doesn't get cold without his hat. I hope that blood will wash out…

I turn my attention to the painkillers. My hands are especially shaky after my encounter with Craig, and I spill six or seven pills onto the table instead of two. I pick each one up individually, placing them into the bottle with care until only two are left. I down them with another sip of coffee and head upstairs, bringing the coffee, the ice, and Craig's hat.

The bleeding slows down considerably as I lay in bed dabbing at my nose with Craig's hat. Pulling it away from my face, I turn it over in my hands, stroking the fabric and toying with the puffball on top. It belongs to Craig. I'm holding something that belongs to Craig. My _blood's _on something that belongs to Craig. With a bitter little giggle, I realize this probably the most intimacy we'll ever have. My blood on an article of his clothing—how weird is that?

I gingerly press a finger to the bridge of my nose to see if the painkillers are working. They aren't. "Ah, Jesus! Th-this sucks, man…"

It's the first time I've talked since Craig left. My voice is foreign and nasally sounding because of the break in my nose. Actually, it's kind of like Craig's. It's too high-pitched and panicky to be Craig, but it's close. And before I realize what I'm doing, I'm touching myself.

I know. There's something seriously wrong with me.

"Jesus," I say again, closing my eyes and thinking of Craig. I try to calm myself down and lower my voice. Craig's always calm. His voice is never twitchy or shaking.

"Tweek," I breathe, shuddering at the sound of my own name. I can almost believe it's Craig. I want to believe it's Craig. The more excited I get, the harder it is to imitate Craig's voice, and the more I think about what I'm doing, the sicker it makes me. I stop thinking and just talk to myself, murmuring everything I wish Craig would say to me.

"Tweek," I whisper again, touching all the mismatched buttons on my shirt while my other hand unzips my fly. "I want you, Tweek."

I yelp at how realistic it sounds to my desperate ears, shattering my concentration. I'm completely aroused now though, and I try not to think of how much of a sicko I am as I start to jack off to the sound of my own voice—almost, almost Craig's voice. I know I'm reaching, but I don't care. My eyes are still closed and my brain lets me imagine it's Craig's hand that's touching me.

"I love you, Tweek," I moan, and it makes me nuts, instantly sending me over the edge. I shudder and release, breathing Craig's name as I come. When I open my eyes, my room is empty and my shaking hand is covered in the _evidence_. God, what the hell did I just do?

I head to the bathroom to clean myself up, almost screaming as I catch my reflection in the mirror. I look terrible. My hair is worse than usual, and there's dried blood on my hands, my face, my shirt, and the hat I'm afraid to let go of. I wash my hands in the sink, still staring at my horrified, twitching reflection.

Today I broke my nose, I bled all over the place, I wasted two whole cups of spilled coffee, I burned myself through my clothes, I ruined my shirt, and Craig walked me home and gave me his hat.

Today was a good day.


End file.
